His Private Literature
by Galasriniel Anessathiel
Summary: Harry and Draco have a vastly different relationship than everyone thinks. Four years after Harry rejects Draco on the train, Draco finally gets the chance to ask him why. Slash.


**A/N: **This is the first part of an intended three chapters. This fic is based on an idea from a H/D video I watched on youtube, to the song 'Say My Name' by Within Temptation.

_Title came from the quote: _"Every man's memory is his private literature." - Aldous Huxley

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**His Private Literature**

Sometimes I resent the lack of windows in the Slytherin dorms. I often think that our common room being in the dungeons just makes the rest of the school even more wary of us, gives them another reason to say that the Slytherins are wicked. _Look at them, hiding away in the dark like bats._ We could be doing all kinds of evil and perverted things down here, couldn't we? I'm not surprised the only ones who haunt these dank, depressing halls are those who are forced to live here.

Of course, I never voice these musings out loud. On occasion, I even allow myself to dwell on the genuine reason why I dislike the dungeons, why I miss the sunlight in the morning and pale moonlight at night when I don't even attempt to sleep. I am well aware of the fact that the only time insomnia catches me is when I yearn to look at the stars. Truthfully, this doesn't happen very frequently. But when it does, it preys on my mind relentlessly until I finally surrender and sneak from the dungeons, stealing into the corridors of the upper floors, which are always bathed in glorious moonlight. I have not once left my bed on a new moon. I sit silently on a wide window seat overlooking the grounds and close my eyes for a moment before opening them again and gazing out. Although I always dread the moment my thoughts begin to wander, I never draw my eyes from the pinpricks of light in the velvet sky and try not to notice the tender ache in my chest as I fall into the memories.

***

I don't know what made me approach Harry, but now I'm stood in front of him, panicking, because he looks to be becoming increasingly irritated at my prolonged silence and his insufferable friends are staring curiously and with not a little loathing at me.

Eventually, I recover my voice from whatever black hole it had momentarily fallen into and frowned uncomfortably before speaking. I'm getting really distracted with his cronies glaring at me.

"Potter, would you mind telling your minions to back off? I asked to speak to you privately, and that does not include the Weasel and the Bookworm," I say, making sure to inject the appropriate amount of irritation and contempt into my voice to conceal my nervousness.

"Not everyone bends to your whim, Malfoy. They have every right to be here, whether you like it or not," Harry replies venomously, and I recoil slightly, although not visibly.

By forced habit, I draw myself up and retort tersely, "I'm not speaking until they leave."

"Suit yourself." And with that Harry starts to turn away, and I think fast, unwilling to let go of this opportunity now that I have finally worked up the nerve to say something.

"Please," I whisper to his back, wincing when I realise what my desperation has brought me to. At least Weasley and Granger don't appear to have heard. My shoulders relax when Harry turns slowly back around to stare at me incredulously. I doubt he remembers the last time I said that word to him.

"This is important, Potter. Just give me a minute," I say quietly, my mouth turning dry.

Harry appears to consider something for a moment, then he looks directly into my eyes and tells me to meet him in the Trophy Room. "Midnight. And Ron is coming." I blink as he turns and walks away without another word. I curse inwardly as I realise I'm really not going to speak to him without at least one of his friends present. Looks like I'll just have to suck it up.

It isn't until eleven o' clock that night that I realise Harry named the location and time of our would-have-been first duel over four years ago.

***

1st September, 1991

_Draco had been worrying about this confrontation for days now, knowing it was inevitable eventually but still resenting it. He was still seething from Harry's unexpected rebuff in Diagon Alley and trying to figure out what he would say when he found Harry on the train. He turned to look into another compartment, almost hoping Harry wasn't in there. He wasn't. Instead, Draco found Crabbe and Goyle, predictably stuffing their faces. Draco smirked and cleared his throat pointedly, the two thickset boys glancing up and greeting him with their mouths full. Draco grimaced slightly before sitting down opposite them, refusing to admit to himself that he was stalling._

"_Have you heard? Harry Potter's on the train, in our year. Haven't seen him, but Pansy said he was talking to this bunch of redheads on the platform," Goyle said after swallowing._

_Draco frowned. Harry Potter? "Do you know what he looks like?" Draco asked, realisation slowly creeping up on him. He didn't even know Harry's last name. How could he not know, after this long? _

"_Black hair, glasses, scrawny. That's all Pansy said. He's just down the corridor, apparently," Crabbe said, not noticing the colour drain from Draco's face, busy as he was unwrapping another chocolate frog._

_Draco shook his head in disbelief. How could it be-?_

"_Come on. We're going to go find him," Draco said authoritatively, stepping from the compartment before his friends could get a word out. As he walked briskly down the corridor, Draco mused on this sudden revelation. The more he thought about it, the angrier he got. Why did Harry not tell him? How could he keep such a big thing as being a celebrity secret? Draco had never even noticed the scar, Harry's fringe had been too long for him to see it and Draco didn't tend to spend his time staring at people's foreheads._

_Draco almost stopped short, when he saw that indeed Harry was sat in the compartment he was coming up to, conversing with a redhead. A... Weasley. Draco almost retched. What was Harry doing? He didn't need other friends, he had Draco! Ignoring the irrational jealousy, Draco slid open the door and stepped into the compartment._

"_Is it true? They're saying all down the train that Harry Potter's in this compartment. So it's you, is it?" Draco asked, masking the recognition in his eyes for the benefit of his companions._

"_Yes," said Harry shortly, not appearing regretful of his secret-keeping in the slightest. He just looked confused, glancing at Crabbe and Goyle. _

"_Oh, this is Crabbe and Goyle." Draco hoped vindictively that Harry was as jealous of his other friends as Draco was of Harry's. "And my name's Malfoy, Draco Malfoy," Draco continued, meaning this statement for the Weasley, but not taking his eyes from Harry's. He was forced to turn to the redhead, though, when he let out and ill-concealed snigger._

"_Think my name's funny, do you? No need to ask who you are. My father told me all the Weasleys have red hair, freckles and more children than they can afford," said Draco contemptuously, glaring at the already insufferable Weasley._

"_You'll soon find out some wizarding families are much better than others, Potter," he said, deliberately using Harry's newly discovered last name, to try and goad him into feeling even slightly guilty. "You don't want to go making friends with the wrong sort. I can help you there." Draco extended his hand, showing Weasley exactly who Harry's real first friend was._

_However, Draco nearly lost his composure when Harry glanced at his hand, then back up to his face, and said coolly, "I think I can tell the wrong sort for myself, thanks."_

_Later on that night, when he climbed into his Slytherin four-poster for the first time, Draco regretted saying the things he did after Harry rejected him. Draco's automatic reaction had been to be haughty and mean. Harry had hurt him._

***

_Malfoy._

I hate it when he calls me that. Whenever he refers to me by my last name, by an unwritten rule I have to respond in kind; unfortunately, calling him by his surname feels as foreign as hearing him saying mine. He doesn't even realise how much that one word cuts me. Once upon a time he would have cared. Not anymore. I have spent four years trying to figure out what I did to deserve how he treated me. I used to think I knew him. Surely, he is not this cold? He was never this cruel. What did I do that hurt you so, Harry? I certainly don't know. But, by now I realise it is utterly pointless to still be agonizing over this. He has clearly moved on. In fact, I'm guessing he did over four years ago. So why can't I? It is so completely unfair that sometimes I hate him for being able to forget, when I still cling to my memories like a child's blanket. It appears I was exceptionally naive in my youth. People can change.

***

I don't understand how it is possible that I can both dread and eagerly look forward to my meeting with Harry tonight. More than once in the past hour I have wondered if Harry had possibly realised why I approached him and arranged to meet in the Trophy Room on purpose. If that is the case, I can't decide whether that is a good or a bad sign. I'm just going to tell myself it's the former.

I attempt to start on my Transfiguration essay for a while, but am exasperatingly unable to concentrate. After throwing my quill down in frustration, I glance at the clock and, finally, it is half past eleven. I think it will be acceptable to be a little early, as opposed to the first time we were to meet there and I set Filch and his creepy cat on them. I've forgotten why I even did that now. It was the perfect time to talk to Harry before, and we might have resolved this years ago had I not been so bitter about him choosing Weasley over me. I have to admit that I was annoyingly ignorant when I was eleven.

I push these useless thoughts to the back of mind as I swiftly leave the dungeons, focussing resolutely on the present and on what this meeting could mean. By the time I reach the third floor I am almost shivering with anticipation, but I pride myself on the fact that I'm managing to restrain my reaction.

I'm ten minutes early, and lean apprehensively against the wall, suddenly struck by the alarming thought that maybe Harry and Weasley have decided to get revenge from first year, and tipped off Filch that I'm out of the dorms after hours. This idea distresses me so much that I forcefully disregard it and push irritably off the wall, pacing back and forth until Harry (and I'm disappointed to see that Weasley has indeed accompanied him) arrives five minutes later.

Harry and Weasley stand in front of me for a moment, glaring suspiciously, until Harry says bluntly, "What do you want then, Malfoy?" and folds his arms over his chest warily.

I take a deep, calming breath, attempting to draw courage from who knows where, and ask the question that's been plaguing me for years, pointedly ignoring Weasley's presence.

"Why did you reject me on the train?"

There was no hesitation. "Because you were stuck-up and annoying and insulted the first two friends I ever had. Why should I have shaken your hand?"

What? He's just denying it, just like that? That just doesn't cut it with me. I don't know where this anger has come from, it's a comment that would usually sting harshly. But it doesn't. I'm just indignant.

"That's a lie," I say coldly, "I did _not_ insult your first ever friends."

I'm gratified to see Harry's eyes widen slightly and his cheeks tinge pink (although how I can tell in the dark is beyond me) just before Weasley has to go and interrupt.

"What are you talking about, Malfoy? You called Hagrid a savage and I distinctly remember you referring to me as the 'wrong sort', among other things. Don't even bother denying it."

"I'm not denying it. I did say those things. But even though my comment was directed at Potter anyway, I will say it again: I did not insult his first ever friends," I glare at Weasley for a second before turning back to Harry, daring him to disagree.

"What? You're making no sense, you just said-"

"Ron, stop," Harry interrupts to my relief. I didn't come here to talk to this oaf. "I asked you to come with me because I thought you deserved the truth. Malfoy's not lying. So please, can you just listen and not interrupt?" Harry says all this calmly, looking away from Weasley as he finishes. I'm pleased to see that Weasley is looking suitably confused, his mouth hanging open stupidly. Eventually, he just nods mutely and resumes his favourite pastime: glaring daggers at me.

"Why did you _really_ reject me, Harry?" I ask again, quietly.

Weasley gapes at my use of Harry's given name, but I studiously ignore him, instead opting to gaze intently at Harry, who doesn't seem surprised at all.

A silence stretches out for what seems like an eternity before he answers. "Your father," he whispers, looking at the ground. I cannot help my reaction. My eyes widen and I fall back a step away from Harry, completely dumbfounded. How could my father have had anything to do with this? Weasley seems to melt into inexistence, until it is just Harry and I stood opposite each other.

Harry looks pained as he continues, "He told me to stay away from you, that he didn't want his only son and heir being influenced by someone like me. He said if I continued to talk to you, he would find me, and he would punish me. I had no choice." The last sentence was said so quietly I almost missed it. I didn't, though, and as the words start to sink in, I fall back another step, and my back hits the wall. I slump against it gratefully. I don't feel like I could hold myself upright without assistance. Harry looks at me unhappily as his words whirl sickeningly around my head, repeating over and over, _your father_.

I look into his eyes eventually, and ask the first question that comes to my mind. "Why didn't you tell me?"

I feel sick. And betrayed. By both my father and Harry; how could he be such a good actor? From the instant Harry rejected me I had always believed without a doubt that Harry hated me more than anyone, but now it looks as if I may have been wrong all along. I carefully push myself from the wall and stand with my arms by my sides, waiting to see if Harry will even answer at all.

Harry looks so sad when he answers me; I wonder how I could have missed it before. "You know he would have found out somehow. I couldn't risk it."

"We were friends for four years..." I say quietly, "Did it mean nothing? Did you just forget, the second my father told you to?"

"Of course I didn't!" Harry says, his head jerking up, staring earnestly at me. "I haven't forgotten a thing."

I breathe a sigh of relief at that. I can't help but believe what he's saying; it doesn't even occur to me that maybe he's lying, just to protect my feelings. It's been too long since he's actually cared about how I feel.

"We could have kept it a secret, if we needed to. My father had no clue for years, it can't have been that hard. I would never let him hurt you," I reply, willing him to believe me.

"No, you don't understand... I couldn't risk telling you, because I was scared that if he found out he would punish you." He seems to be finding it difficult to look at me, but is resolutely watching my eyes; I gaze back disbelievingly; that was the last thing I expected to hear.

Without thinking, I reach up with my hand and gently, with the very tips of my fingers, brush his cheek, travelling sideways until I push back a lock of his unruly hair from his face, watching his eyes intently the whole time. I don't want to admit that it hurts a bit that when he realises he's was leaning into my hand, he immediately stops and drops his eyes. Then I pull my hand back hastily as a thought occurs to me.

"But you're telling me now," I whisper, trying to ignore what my subconscious is saying that means.

He looks confused for a moment, then Harry's eyes widen perceptibly and he takes an apparently unconscious step towards me. "No - what I mean is - I'm not scared of your father anymore, I was only eleven when he told me to leave you alone, but it's different now, we're both stronger than we were..." Harry trails off, seeming at a loss for what else to say. I sigh, the tension ebbing from me at the notion that maybe Harry still cares, even a little, about me.

Harry suddenly lets out a bitter laugh and remarks, "The ironic thing is, we could have had this conversation in first year, but you set Filch on us and we almost got killed by Fluffy."

I blink. Need I really ask? "Fluffy?"

"Oh, yeah. Just put it this way, Fluffy was one of Hagrid's pets, and he was the reason we weren't allowed on the third floor in first year," Harry explains, his eyes sparkling in mirth, and my breath catches because it's been so long since I've seen that expression directed at me.

I smile slightly for a second – I'm not even sure if Harry notices – but then I finally register what else he said. "I'm sorry. I wouldn't have done it had I known."

I think he barely hears my whispered apology, but apparently he does, because the next thing I know, I am enveloped in an earnest, albeit awkward hug. I clutch him back desperately, almost as if I won't be able to stand without him holding me. Four years is a long time.

"I missed you," I murmur into his hair, mortified, as I realise I said this without my conscious consent.

However, I'm touched to hear Harry respond in kind a second later, deciding I don't regret the endearment after all. As long as Weasley didn't hear. That thought snaps me back to reality as I finally remember that we have company. But honestly, I can't wait to see the look on his face. I'm surprised he managed to keep quiet this whole time.

Pulling reluctantly from the embrace, I spare a quick glance towards Weasley and am not disappointed. He looks positively apoplectic. It's very amusing.

These thoughts fly from my mind when I look back at Harry, though. He's looking at me... differently. That's one look I have never seen before, and I like to think that I know his expressions quite well, despite it being so long since we've been friends. I don't understand it.

He suddenly seems to notice that I'm watching him and blushes furiously as he frowns slightly and looks away. I bring his gaze sweeping back when I utter his name softly.

"Can we... I mean... now that I know what happened... could we be friends again? Try and forget the last few years?" I'm horrified to realise that I'm stuttering, that I sound undeniably nervous.

"No," he whispers, and my heart breaks.

I know my face falls, and both Harry and Weasley see it. The ginger bastard is probably feeling smug as anything. You couldn't pay me to tell you what Harry was thinking.

"Why?" I ask brokenly, not even bothering to conceal how hurt I am anymore.

"I can't..." is the reply, and I snap.

I lash out at him automatically. "Why not? Did you not just admit we could have been friends this whole time? Do you need me to tell you I'm sorry again? Or is it just that you've already got enough friends now and don't want to be seen with me?" My tone is bitter, and I breathe out heavily and continue in a softer voice, "What do you want?"

"I can't be friends with you, Draco, and if I tell you why I can guarantee you will run a mile away," Harry says sadly, and I barely notice his use of my first name.

All the same, my anger drains from me and I deflate quickly; Harry sounds resolute.

"But..." I argue hopelessly, "nothing you say can make me run, Harry. Just tell me why..."

His eyes swim and I try again.

"Please..."

For a second nothing happens. And then my brain short-circuits as suddenly Harry has moved towards me, and I notice his head bend slightly the split second before his lips are on mine.

I'm so confused I just stand there numbly for the few seconds he is kissing me. It seems like an eternity.

He pulls away and whispers "That's why."

Before I can articulate my thoughts and even get one word out, he has fled from the room. My legs seem to work of their own accord, and I find myself crossing the room desperately after him, calling Harry's name as he passes the threshold and I hear his feet pounding down the corridor, disregarding the noise he is making. I shout again as I step out of the doorway and see Harry escaping around the corner. I try to arrange my thoughts into some kind of order, but before I can, Weasley barges past me and runs after Harry, leaving me standing in the hall alone and utterly bewildered.

After a few minutes of standing stock still and watching the spot where Harry disappeared, as if willing him to walk back around the corner, I heave a sigh and walk slowly back into the Trophy Room. As I walk to the far wall of the small room, I lean my back against it and close my eyes, marvelling at the tears gathering in them. I cannot remember the last time I cried.

Before I know it, I've slid down the wall and landed heavily on the cold, stone floor, drawing my knees up to my chest and running my hands haphazardly through my hair. All my composure has flown out the window; normally I would blanch at the state my hair is now in. Now it's irrelevant.

As the first stray tear escapes, I put my head in my hands and do not sob. I just sit there, shaking, as the tears slip silently down my cheeks without resistance.

***

1st August, 1991

_At Madam Malkin's shop, while getting his Hogwarts robes fitted, the last person Draco expected to walk in the door was Harry. But somehow he did, and Draco blinked rapidly a few times in succession before concluding that no, his eyes weren't deceiving him, and his best friend, who he had previously conceived to be a Muggle, was indeed in Diagon Alley, also buying Hogwarts robes. By habit, Draco immediately called out Harry's name and waved rather more enthusiastically than a Malfoy really should. Once again, Draco was surprised as the opposite to what he was expecting happened. Harry blinked confusedly a couple of times at him, then gave a small wave back, showing no signs of recognition whatsoever. When Harry moved off to the other side of the shop without a word, Draco frowned and attempted to step down from the platform he was stood on, but Madam Malkin impatiently held him still as she almost stuck a pin into his ankle._

"_Excuse me," Draco said with barely concealed annoyance, "can I please have a minute, there's someone I need to speak to."_

"_Now dear, let me see to these robes first, then you can go and talk to whomever you want," Madam Malkin said infuriatingly calmly._

_Draco sighed in exasperation and reasoned that Harry had to stay until he was finished before he could get his own robes, so he would have plenty of chance to ask Harry why he had blanked him._

_Draco had to make an effort not to tap his foot as the woman finished his robes, and the second she was done, Draco stepped down with a hasty "thank you" and went in search of his friend, who seemed to be hiding somewhere in the back of the store._

_He found Harry browsing through navy blue women's dress robes, obviously not knowing they were for girls, and Draco couldn't help laughing out loud. Harry looked incredibly startled as he spun around to face Draco, and when he saw who it was, his eyes took on a hunted look. Draco smiled automatically and stepped towards Harry, taking in Harry's surreptitious step backwards._

"_Harry, why didn't you tell me you were coming to Hogwarts?" Draco asked, a little hurt at how Harry was distancing himself from him._

"_Er..." Harry replied worriedly, as if he'd never seen Draco before in his life._

"_What's wrong with y-"_

"_Draco, I trust you are finished in here?" said an imposing voice over his shoulder, and Draco whirled around, his cheeks flaming._

"_Um, yes father, but I'm just talking to..." Draco's words faltered as he saw the look of loathing his father sent at Harry, wondering what on earth he could have against him; he was going to Hogwarts too... (Draco steadfastly ignored the fact that he himself had only found out this fact ten minutes ago)._

_But before he could contemplate this further, Harry had fled from the shop after muttering "sorry, Sir", and Draco glared at his father, angry that he had made Harry leave._

"_Father-"_

"_Draco," he interrupted again, "I do not want you to talk to that boy anymore."_

"_But why?"_

"_I don't have to give a reason. Just stay away from him."_

_Draco sulked for the rest of the day, not saying a word, except to demand something from his mother. By the time they left Diagon Alley, Draco had not seen Harry again, and decided he was just going to ignore his father and be friends with whomever he pleased._

***

I like to think I am a very poised person; my appearance is always impeccable, I hold good company (despite what others may think), and my manners have nothing to be desired (excepting with a few choice people of course). My father and mother have always taught me etiquette and self-control and they would be horrified to see me sitting on the hard floor of a draughty Trophy Room with my hair mussed and tear tracks on my face.

It's not often I muse on my family, but now whenever I do it is always with bitterness and regret. I used to adore my parents. They loved me and spoilt me and gave me all their attention, they were the perfect mother and father in my eyes. Now I resent what they've turned me into. I know I'm cold and aloof and annoyingly snooty-- I tried not to be when I realised what I was like, but it's hard to change a habit that has been present for a lifetime. But that's not what bothers me the most. It's what I've discovered about _them_ that disturbs me immensely, and I try to keep as far from them as possible. I always knew to some extent that my parents thought they were better than others, but the summer after fourth year opened my eyes and I did not like what I saw.

That summer I realised what it meant to be a pureblood Death Eater. The one time I walked in on my parents in their black robes and masks with a circle of their close 'acquaintances,' I fled and later tried to convince myself that it had not happened and my parents were not monsters. It didn't work. From that moment I made my choice. I did not shed my Pureblood Supremacy persona, but privately vowed that I would not become my father.

***

It's difficult to tell what someone's thinking when they won't look at you, so I have gained no insight whatsoever into how Harry is feeling. I find it hard to believe that no one else in the Great Hall can feel the crackling tension between me and my 'enemy'.

When Harry gets up, I see it from the corner of my eye and glance discreetly at him, in the split second his eyes slide away from me. Frustrated at my missed chance, I spear my bacon with my fork, disregarding the screeching sounds of the prongs grinding against my plate. Others notice, though, and glance at me, annoyed but silent, and I take this opportunity to leave the Hall under the guise of needing to get away from their stares.

As I walk briskly but calmly from the breakfast hall, I spot Harry practically running through the main doors to the grounds, and I stealthily follow, quite sure Harry does not have Care of Magical Creatures or Herbology first lesson.

I can't be sure if he knows I'm there or not when he slumps against the willow by the lake, sliding down until he is sat on what I'm sure is damp grass on the lake shore. I conclude that he didn't when he starts as I sit a couple of feet away from him, on his right. I get the impression he is taut as a bowstring and longing to run away again as I turn to look at him curiously. His back is ramrod straight against the tree trunk, his hair seemingly more dishevelled than usual, and he has noticeable bruise-purple bags under his eyes. It looks like he hasn't slept. At least I know I'm not the only one.

I was just trying to decide on what to say when Harry starts on me.

"What do you want, Malfoy? Come to laugh at me? Maybe to tell me what your friends said when you told them I'm a pouf? Well let me say this now: I don't care. Just leave it and piss off before I do something I'll regret later."

I blink a couple of times, startled by his outburst. I don't understand it. When did I give him the impression I wanted to laugh at him? Yes, I didn't kiss back, but did I not run after him and ask him to come back? Maybe this isn't the best time to be talking to him. I still don't know what to do because I know this must be hurting Harry, but... I _don't_ want to kiss him back. I honestly wish I did feel that way about him, but I can't. I want him to be my friend. But now I see that cannot be the best idea. Still, we have to talk about it sometime, if not now.

"Harry, I'm not going to laugh at you. I haven't told a soul what happened last night, and if you don't want me to, I never will. But we have to talk. I want to know how this happened. Please." I don't cringe at the fact that I'm begging.

Harry looks so miserable when he gazes at me that I break a little.

"I don't want to talk about it. There's nothing to talk about anyway. I think I made it clear last night why I can't be your friend, and unless you share my feelings, which I'm certain you don't, nothing good can come of this. Just stay away from me, and you can forget all about this and go back to being Prince of Slytherin or whatever the hell you are. I'm done."

He's done with what? He's all for the dramatic speeches today, I notice. I would say I had rubbed off on him, but I know I can't have, since this is the first time we've properly spoken to each other since we were eleven.

I think about arguing again for a moment, but decide against it as I realise I really do need time to think. Without a word, I stand up and walk away, trying desperately not to look back and see if he's watching me leave.

Sighing heavily, I step into the Arithmancy classroom ten minutes later and pull out my textbooks, futilely hoping the lesson will take my mind off Harry. Predictably, it doesn't, and fifteen minutes through class I am told yet again to pay attention. After a fourth warning a further ten minutes later, I give up and stalk from the room, ignoring Professor Vector's frustrated shouts for me to sit back down.

The rest of the morning is spent alternately moping and attempting to study, despite my horrendous efforts in Arithmancy. I'm still trying to make sense of everything that's happened in these few short hours when Blaise and Theo bustle into the room, talking loudly about how out of it Potter is today and how funny it was to see him sent out of his Transfiguration class after failing once again to listen to McGonagall's lecture. This news doesn't surprise me in the least. In fact, I would feel quite insulted if Harry was able to concentrate on his studies when I'm falling apart.

I tune my dorm mates out as they laugh and gossip and get their books for classes after break, and close my eyes. I decide there's really no point in going to any more classes to today, as I doubt I'll have any more success in being able to listen, so I keep quiet and hope the two others in the room don't notice I'm here and expect me to walk to Defence Against the Dark Arts with them. I thank whatever deities there may be that they leave a minute later and slam the door behind them; I breathe an inaudible sigh of relief.

The rest of the day passes uneventfully as I cannot even bring myself to leave the dorm, and by seven o' clock I will admit I am bored out of my skull. I regretfully drag myself from my bed for dinner, part of me feeling sick at the thought of seeing Harry in the Great Hall, and the other part just hungry.

I'm slightly surprised to see that Harry isn't there when I enter the hall, and his bushy-haired friend looks to be interrogating a tight-lipped Weasley about what is going on. Said Weasley glares at me with twice as much intensity as usual as I sit calmly at the table, not letting my mask of indifference slip for even a split second. I cannot help my anxious glances at the door though, worrying about if there is something wrong with Harry other than what happened last night and this morning. I wait until even Harry's Gryffindor followers leave before I reluctantly get up from the table, noting how contradictory it is of me to first be dreading seeing Harry and then resenting _not_ seeing him later.

I throw myself back onto my bed when get I back to my dorm and resume the pressing task of brooding. I don't get in moods like this often, but by now my friends know to leave me alone and let me get it out of my system. But this time I have no idea how long it will be before I get over it. I'm slowly but surely coming to the conclusion that Harry was right and we really can't be anything more than what we have been for the past four years. That doesn't mean I'm going to accept it all that easily.

Before I know it, it is midnight, and all of my fellow fifth year Slytherins have retired to bed. I, however, am still staring at the canopy of my bed, trying ineffectually to sleep. I don't contemplate the fact that it will be pretty hard to fall asleep with my eyes open.

Eventually giving up sleep as a lost cause, I finally crawl from my bed and trudge up the stairs from the dungeons, making my way to my usual spot on the window seat on the seventh floor. I don't know what it is about this place in particular that I like so much. I don't even try to analyse why this floor somehow makes me feel closer to Harry.

For the first time in my years at Hogwarts I am here on a new moon. I frown at this and wonder what it could mean. It's disquieting, to say the least; don't ask me why.

Not even the stars can comfort me tonight. My attention refuses to be pulled from the present for once. I find that what happened only twelve hours ago has opened some kind of floodgate in me as once again tears slip silently down my cheeks, wondering where the innocence and happiness of our youth has gone. I'm only fifteen, but I feel weary and old. I want things the way they were before I came here. I want go back to first year, throw my wounded pride out the window and go to the damn duel. But there's no point in wishful thinking now. It hurts too much.

I think about the look in Harry's eyes this morning when he told me to stay away from him, musing on the irony that last night Harry had told me my father said the exact same thing. Then, in a flash, I remember the look Harry gave me in the Trophy Room that I couldn't understand, and I lean my head heavily back on the wall as I finally see it for what it was.

I squeeze my eyes shut, comprehension coming swiftly and painfully, finally hitting me with the force of an _Impedimenta_ jinx. It really can't happen. Harry is in love with me. And I cannot feel the same way, however much I want to.

I don't know how long I sit there crying silently, willing this revelation not to be true and disregarding the fact that wishing for the past to be undone is foolish. Despite the animosity of all my years at Hogwarts, it's hard to contemplate that it really is over, and Harry and I won't go back to the way we were before, when I never had to look at the stars alone.

I unwisely allow myself to remember back to one of these times when we lied on our backs in the grass of the playing fields and tried to count the stars. Harry had turned to me and asked if I knew any constellations, and when I told him I didn't he had seemed surprised.

"_You mean you don't know everything?"_

"_I know everything of actual importance, Harry."_

"_What, this isn't important? You love the stars, Draco, admit it."_

"_Fine, yes, I love them, happy? Okay... look there, the really bright one, see?"_

"_Uh huh..."_

"_That's Sirius. It is actually the brightest star in the sky, except for the sun, and it's sometimes called the 'dog star'; it's not a constellation, but does that satisfy you?"_

"_Yeah. See, I knew you would know about it."_

"_Well of course, I know everything."_

"_But you just said-"_

"_Shush, Harry."_

"_Git."_

"_Whatever you say."_

I allow myself a small smile at the memory; it's odd to think that at one point the insults were light and didn't actually mean anything, except for maybe affection. It was nice.

I shake my head forcefully as I realise I am wandering into dangerous territory. This is the absolute worst time for reminiscing.

I take in a ragged breath that is almost but not quite a sob, and attempt to convince myself that letting Harry go now is the best thing for both of us. Prolonging the inevitable will not make it any easier or less painful. So, slowly, as the last tear dries on my cheek, I open my eyes and gaze unseeingly at the sky, silently saying something I have been unwilling to utter since first year.

'Goodbye, Harry.'

_--Finis Part I_


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